


Railroad Tracks

by Naemi



Category: The Faculty (1998)
Genre: Drama, Future Fic, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Friendship, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vignette, angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-18
Updated: 2012-10-18
Packaged: 2017-11-27 14:49:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naemi/pseuds/Naemi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Casey comes looking for Zeke's help after many years of separation, he happens to reopen old wounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Railroad Tracks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [claudia603](https://archiveofourown.org/users/claudia603/gifts).



> Future Fic.

 

Zeke doesn't know why it has always fascinated him so much. He cannot exactly name or explain it, but there is something intriguing in the way Casey's eyes come to rest on him. His milky skin just within reach seems flawless, but it's not. The bruises are well hidden. Zeke knows; he has seen them before. A lifetime ago. Some of them were not meant to fade.

Casey's shrug is almost unnoticeable as his story comes to an end. He looks down on the leftovers of his frozen coffee, a single surviving ice cube drowning in the remains.

Zeke feels as if he is that very ice cube, and Casey is the sugar sweet stickiness that slowly assimilates him. He sits back on the couch and lights a cigarette. The room is filled with the greyish smoke of half a pack already, and since neither of them cares to turn on a light, it mixes with the last bit of light cast by the setting sun. Zeke loves this time of day, loves how everything looks when it's bathed in the golden goodbye that peeks shyly into his living room

He inhales slowly. Neither of them speaks. They're both waiting.

A train passes by. The station's just a block away, and in the evening hours, the sound is strangely distorted. It could be due to the general traffic noises dying, but Zeke isn't quite sure.

Casey tilts his head up and narrows his eyes. “Close one,” he mumbles, leaving Zeke to figure out whether he's referring to the train or the fate that has brought him here.

“7:40 to Savannah,” Zeke says absently, as if this information is an answer.

The silence returns to last for two more smokes and one more train—8:02 to Charlotte—until Zeke stands up.

“You want anything?” he asks, and when Casey gives him a confused look, he nods towards the kitchen. “Want a drink?”

“Oh. No. Thanks.”

Once out of view, Zeke closes his eyes for a moment, resting his head against the fridge. The cool metal calms him, keeps him from destroying something at random. It's not fair. So not fair.

He swallows hard and grabs a can of Bud before returning to the living room.

Casey's eyes follow him, or at least he's convinced they do, but when he looks at him, Zeke is surprised to find his gaze fixed on the ashtray.

Zeke sits down, lights yet another smoke, and opens his can of beer to empty half of it in one swallow.

“So what _do_ you want?”

“I told you, I—“

“No. Why _me_?”

Casey doesn't make even the tiniest attempt to speak until the 8:19 to Raleigh rolls by. His face is shadowed by the last rays of the dying sun coming through the blinds, and if he seemed pretty before, he is truly beautiful now. Surreal.

Zeke tries to neither blink nor stare as he waits. It is a paradox in itself, as he is well aware of, but it doesn't matter much. All that matters is not missing anything.

“Frankly? I don't know. You were the first person I could think of. You always . . .” Casey stops, appearing to be unsure of either himself or his words.

Zeke wishes Casey would look up, but he doesn't. “What?"

Casey sighs. “You were the best friend I ever had, Zeke,” he says softly, and it strikes a chord. It makes Zeke want to yell at him, be derisive and mean for reasons he doesn't care to examine, but he manages to hold back. It's not actually his wish to _hurt_ him, although it's tempting. After all, hurt seems to be the key to Casey's world, and Zeke has witnessed enough of the H and C stories in the past that he could probably play Casey easily if he so chose.

But he never did before, and he certainly won't start now.

“. . . took me a while.”

Zeke blinks. Apparently, he's missed something important, judging by how Casey takes a deep breath and swallows hard.

“I'm sorry—“ Zeke starts, and interrupts himself when he notices the breathlessness of his own voice.

“It's okay.”

“No. No, it's not. I didn't even—“

“I know.” _Finally,_ Casey looks up to meet Zeke's eyes, and this time he wishes he hadn't. He clears his throat, but instead of saying something—anything—he empties his beer and lets his favorite, the 8:28 to Atlanta, pass by.

“You can have the bed tonight,” he then says slowly, as if he doesn't actually approve of the idea. “I'll be home late, so don't stay up. And try to, you know, not do anything stupid.”

The whispered, “Thank you,” never reaches Zeke, for he leaves his apartment in a sudden hurry, the door falling shut behind him with a bang.

~ ~ ~

The trains come and go, like the tide when he lived by the ocean, like the people did throughout his entire life. Zeke never realized the recurrent inconsistency until now, never realized how much of a contradiction he is.

He lies awake, listens to the nightly sounds creeping in from outside, and can't stop his heart from beating way too fast. He tries hard to solve the Casey-puzzle, but the pieces won't quite fit, and he's never been good at it anyway, so it only causes him a headache, along with frustration.

There is no sleep, no matter how hard he tries. The beer he had doesn't help, although it was his regular Fuck The World dose. Tonight, it's without effect; Zeke does neither feel sleepy nor is he particularly drunk.

In his mind, Casey's words keep repeating. Not necessarily in the correct order. Not necessarily correct _at all_. But the voice won't be quieted; it circles and crosses and sometimes stops at a red light. The ride, however, is fast paced on the whole, following the tracks down to the one final destination.

Zeke squeezes his eyes shut. He feels so young right now, so helpless to it all, although he knows exactly what he's supposed to do. His heart tells him, but even though he listens, he still won't move.

A lifetime ago, when he saw Casey for the last time until he popped up out of the blue yesterday—and why at his door, out of all doors possible?—Zeke had been in the same position, more or less. He'd closed his eyes to it back then, let it happen without stepping in. Feigned ignorance when he felt excitement.

Bruises. Scars. Tears. So long ago. Today. Every day of his life.

Zeke can't step up for Casey this time, either. He truly wants to offer more than a refuge for the night, but there's one reason why he won't. It's not something to be proud of, but it overpowers him in a way he never learned how to fight.

He wouldn't play Casey, but he will always be excited to watch as others do.

The early train to Atlanta passes by and Zeke rolls to his side, eyes still shut, heart still pounding. The voice in his head speaks of the ugly details Casey left out. Those details that have always turned him on more than anything else in the world.

Zeke reaches down.

The hardness aches more than the guilt.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the wonderful Moit, who also made sure that all characters were returned unharmed.
> 
> _Feedback is love._


End file.
